I deserve an Oscar. Or maybe just a Xanax.
I escape to the bathroom, and when the door closes behind me, I grip the marble counter with both hands.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
My phone is in my clutch. I pull it out and scroll to Tony’s text. The security camera still frame fills my screen. James Whitmore at the bar, grainy but unmistakable. Tony’s message underneath: His name is James Whitmore. He described you pretty well.
I’ll tell him tonight in the car. Robert will understand. Robert always understands.
My reflection doesn’t look convinced.
I tuck the phone away, reapply my lipstick with a hand that barely shakes. The mouth in the mirror is perfect, a flawless matte line that says nothing is wrong. Lipstick doesn’t lie. I do.
Back at the reception, Robert is at the bar. His palm finds the small of my back the second I’m close enough to touch. That easy claim. That trust.
Acid rises in the back of my throat.
The rest of the party is a blur of small talk and my growing tension.
When we leave, Robert’s driving and his fingers find my thigh before we’re out of the parking garage, sliding up the hem of my dress. Mine, that touch says. It used to read as possession. Now it reads as faith I haven’t earned.
“You were quiet tonight.” He glances at me. “Everything okay?”
I said I’d tell him in the car. This is the car. The confession is right there, crowding my throat and thick enough to choke on.
His thumb strokes my thigh. Waiting. Trusting me to answer.
“Just thinking about what you said this morning.” I put my hand over his on my thigh. Let my voice drop the way it does when I’m retelling casino nights. “About you watching.”
Robert’s grip tightens. His fingers press into my inner thigh and drag upward, slow, and my skin lights up. “Yeah?”
And just like that, the confession is gone. Replaced by the one thing I know will make him stop asking questions.
“Mm-hmm.” I spread my legs a fraction of an inch. Enough for his hand to slide higher, and he hits bare skin above my thigh-highs. “I keep imagining Tony fucking me from behind while you’re there.”
He breathes roughly through his nose. His hand slides up, fingers brushing the front of my panties.
“You’re wet.”
My clit pulses against the pressure through damp fabric. “Someone edged me this morning.”
Robert’s finger traces the edge of my panties. One slow pass along where my leg meets my hip that makes my hips roll toward his hand. My pussy is throbbing. She doesn’t care that I’m using his desire as a distraction. She only cares that his hand is two inches from where she wants it.
He tugs the silk to the side. “I want to see your face when he sinks his cock into you.”
His fingertip slides through my slickness, and my breath hitches. A single finger finds my clit and circles.
“God—” My hips push up off the seat. The seatbelt digs into my collarbone. “Robert—”
“I want to see what you become when Adrian edges you.” Two fingers now, sliding along my slit. Not pushing inside. “Close enough to hear every desperate sound you make.”
My chest clenches at the same time my pussy does. He’s building us a future, and I can’t even get through tonight without lying.
I’m so wet his fingers are making sounds of their own. My pussy clenches every time he slides past my entrance without pushing in, and my frustration is building.
His voice has gone to gravel. “After they’re done with you, I want to take you home and fuck you with their cum still inside you.”
My pussy spasms so hard my thighs clamp around his hand. A gush of wetness floods his fingers, and I gasp, grabbing the door handle because I’m halfway to coming in a moving vehicle and my husband just said the filthiest thing he’s ever said to me while merging onto the 520.
